


What Regulus Black Knows About Love

by Alley_Skywalker



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Family, First War with Voldemort, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27094768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/pseuds/Alley_Skywalker
Summary: Between his family, his friends, and Barty, there are a lot of people Regulus loves in a lot of different ways. And they all, in their own way, lead him to the same, foregone conclusion...
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Regulus Black & Death Eater Characters, Regulus Black & Evan Rosier & Severus Snape, Regulus Black & Narcissa Black Malfoy, Regulus Black/Bartemius Crouch Jr.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33
Collections: Fic In A Box





	1. How It Begins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mimsical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimsical/gifts).



Some of Regulus’ earliest memories are of visiting his cousins’ country estate. His parents own the majority of the Black family wealth, including several sprawling estates and country houses, but his mother always preferred Grimmauld Place, complaining that, “Cygnus got the best estate Papa had.” Whether she was sincere in the complaint, or if it was only an excuse, Regulus could never tell. 

Regulus’ recollections are full of the intricate gothic design of the estate house’s towers, looming in long shadows over neatly manicured lawns and fields, a sunbathed paradise for quidditch in the summer. It is only a shame that Sirius cares little for the game and all his cousins are girls, although both Andromeda and Bellatrix humored him with at least some enthusiasm. He remembers the smell of the large library with the study oak shelves and push armchairs, Uncle Cygnus’ tobacco, Aunt Druella’s herbal teas, the tea cakes the elves made, and Narcissa. Narcissa, who emerges for the first time in long skirts when Regulus is six and she is twelve, her light summer dress of white muslin seems to glow in the sun. She seems magical to Regulus, beyond anything else he has ever seen. She smiles, ruffles his hair, her own styled different that he remembers from the portraits and pictures. He tries to recall what she had worn it like the summer before, but his memory is still too fleeting. 

“Can I play with your hair?” he asks, a little shyly when the adults are not paying attention. 

Narcissa smiles indulgently. “It would mess up my hairstyle,” she says with an apologetic look. He notices that there no girlish ribbons in her hair anymore and the picked-up curls she wears resemble Bellatrix and Andromeda, a miniature version of how Aunt Druella does her own hair. 

Narcissa plays piano after dinner and all three Black sisters sing. Narcissa has always been Regulus’ favorite cousin but now he feels it even more acutely somehow. He begs Sirius to take him out flying. Sirius’ broom isn’t a real, adult broom yet, and it doesn’t go very high, but still higher than Regulus’ own toy broom. Sirius obliges after much nagging and they fly circles around the estate house, with Regulus clutching Sirius’ waist, feeling the warm summer breeze in his face, and thinking that Narcissa is as beautiful as the sun. 

When he tries to voice this thought to Sirius, Sirius only makes a face. “They’ve made her into another doll. She won’t even go swimming with us now.”

Regulus is confused. “Did Bella or Andromeda ever go swimming with us?”

Sirius sighs. “Of course, you don’t remember. But that’s the point. She’s a _young lady_ now.” He mimics their mother’s voice in a way Regulus knows to associate with trouble. 

Narcissa sits beside him at supper and draws a small flower on a napkin with her wand. Regulus giggles and watches the magical drawing sparkle and fade, like a firework. “I’m still learning,” Narcissa says, blushing. 

“Did you learn how to do that at school?”

Narcissa shakes her head, then seems to reconsider. “Well, not in class.”

Regulus watches her bobbing curls and it reminds him of the conversation with Sirius. “Are you a doll now, Cissy?”

She blinks. “A what?”

“A doll. Sirius said Auntie made you into a doll. Is that why you wear your hair like that now?”

She sighs and glances over to the other side of the table where the adults are deep in conversation. “No, Reggie, I’m not a doll. I think your brother just means…well, I’m older now. I’ve…” She flushes. “I’ve _flowered._ ” 

“What does that mean?”

“She has to start looking for a husband,” Sirius pipes up from the other side of the table, where he is digging a hole in his pie as thought burrowing a tunnel through a sandcastle.

“That’s not true!” Narcissa snaps, somehow turning an even deeper red, as Regulus looks on horrified. “But I do need to start having more responsibility.”

“Sirius doesn’t know what that means,” Regulus smirks. 

Sirius glowers at him. 

“What is this, are we already making plans to marry Cissy off? Are you proposing, Mr. Black?” Andromeda teases good-naturedly, catching onto what they’re talking about. For a few minutes the conversation dissolves into the Black sisters chirping at each other about things Regulus is still too young to understand, as he studies his own dessert. 

For all that everyone seems convinced that Narcissa is now too old for childish games and to go on swims with her cousins, Regulus doesn’t think too much has changed. Narcissa still picks flowers for him and weaves them into wreathes. They play hide-and-seek in the rose garden and apple orchard, although Narcissa finds it harder to hide now that she cannot climb trees or tuck herself under bushes for fear of getting her dainty dresses dirty. In the evenings, she reads him stories from large, old books with hand-drawn pictures of goblins and dragons. Sirius will sometimes sneak in to listen as well, even though he pretends to not care, just as he pretends to not care about Narcissa either. 

“Why don’t you like her?” Regulus asks when they are alone, tucked into bed in the guest room, with the candles blown out. “Is it because she’s a girl?”

Sirius huffs but doesn’t answer for a while. “It’s not that I don’t like her. She’s alright, I suppose. I just…” Despite the dark, Regulus can almost see Sirius chewing on his lip. “I like Meddy more.”

Regulus concedes that he likes Andromeda well enough. She is nice and sneaks treats for them from the kitchens. She will play hide-and-seek with them and show them neat tricks she learned at school. Regulus especially likes the transfiguration ones. She’s the only one who’s actually enthusiastic about quidditch. There isn’t anything wrong with Andromeda. But it somehow seems significant that Sirius prefers her while Regulus prefers Narcissa. He doesn’t know what the significance is – perhaps it is only that Sirius and Andromeda are also six years apart. 

Their preferences stay much the same as they get older, although Regulus starts to understand better where the root of things lies, even if it is only vague glimpses at first, instinctive comprehension that scares him more than anything. Andromeda is studious where Sirius is not, but they share secret books that Regulus is not allowed to know about, and Mother certainly _cannot_ know about. Andromeda is the only one who seems to understand Sirius’ joy of being sorted into Gryffindor, and Regulus feels that Sirius’ grief at Andromeda’s elopement is different than everyone else’s. 

Regulus is eleven when Andromeda elopes, only months away from entering Hogwarts. He goes to see Narcissa and sits quietly on her bed as she reminisces about her childhood with her sisters. Her eyes glitter with unshed tears and she sniffs into a handkerchief to keep them back. “I thought we would always have each other,” Narcissa says. “And now…all the destruction she’s left.” 

Regulus is old enough to count off the casualties in his head: her parents good name, Narcissa heart, her engagement with Rodolphus Lestrange, Bellatrix’s freedom as she is forced to take her sister’s place as Lestrange’s bride in a move to save the family’s honor. 

“It’s so unfair!” Narcissa sobs, and Regulus crosses the room to embrace her.

*~*

“Oi! Reg! Come sit with us.” 

Regulus turns around at the sound of Evan’s voice and smiles faintly in recognition. Evan Rosier is hanging out of a half-open compartment, his honeysuckle blonde hair that has begun to darken into brown falling over his eyes. He’s already changed into his school robes and his Slytherin tie is hanging out of his waistcoat, swaying slowly as Evan shifts from one foot to the other. 

Regulus has no reason to not accept his invitation. He’s known Evan since early childhood, Aunt Druella being a Rosier, and he likes Evan too. The Rosier estate is brilliant in the summer and Evan’s older brother, Andre, always lets them run wild on their brooms. It would have made sense for Regulus to sit with his own brother, but Sirius paid him little mind once they reached the platform, immediately disappearing into the waiting train. Regulus had passed his compartment earlier – it was packed with messy, loud Gryffindor boys, already ears deep in chocolate frogs, not five minutes away from the station. 

Regulus treks back down the narrow corridor, trying to not trip over his trunk in the process. 

There are other boys in the compartment. Jack Avery Regulus already knows, if only in passing. Avery shakes his bright-red hair – _he must have a Weasley in his family tree,_ the joke goes – out of his face and throws a careless, but friendly, _hello_ toward Regulus. The other boy, Severus Snape, Regulus is not familiar with. _He must be a half-blood,_ Regulus thinks, although Evan doesn’t say as much. Regulus wracks his mind for all the respectable half-blood families his parents deign to associate with and realizes there isn’t one named Snape among them. It seems rude to ask, however, so Regulus merely takes a seat beside Avery with a polite nod to Snape. Snape merely nods back, deep in a book. 

“I suppose you’re confident about making Slytherin,” Avery says matter-of-factly. 

“Of course he will,” Evan snorts. “His entire family are Slytherin.”

“Other than Black. The other Black.”

“That’s because he’s arrogant and insufferable,” Snape says through his teeth. 

Regulus feels like he should defend his brother’s honor, but he also finds himself a little hard-pressed to disagree. Evan does the noble deed for him. “Seriously, Sev. His brother is here.”

“Well it’s not like it’s a surprise to him – they live together.”

Evan rolls his eyes and Avery laughs. “You must excuse him,” Evan says with a bright smile. “Not very polished social skills.”

“Bugger off,” Snape says, but it’s without malice. 

“My brother can be a pain,” Regulus concedes. “But I’m still convinced that he only got sorted into Gryffindor out of rebellion.”

“Do you think the Sorting Hat works like that?” Evan askes. 

“Hell if any of us know.” Avery shrugs. “Look, here comes the trolly.”

They buy sweets. Regulus notices that Snape only fishes out a few knuts to spare. Evan makes a show of pooling their money and sharing the candy and cakes. Regulus shoots him a look which Evan answers, a little sheepishly, when Snape isn’t looking. Avery seems oblivious to the entire thing. Regulus, for his part, doesn’t mind and is somewhat touched. 

A boy none of them knows wanders into their compartment a few minutes later. “Everywhere else is full,” he says in a heavy French accent. He introduces himself as Anatole Bonfante, a French Pureblood, and immediately engages Evan into a conversation about Paris. 

Regulus turns his attention to Snape. “Are you studying already?”

“He’s always studying,” Avery says.

“Well, I didn’t ask you, Jack, did I?” Regulus says with a smirk. 

Avery mutters something about _those Blacks_ but doesn’t press further. “Not studying exactly,” Snape says. 

Regulus tries to catch a look at the title of the book he’s reading. “Potent Potions and Practical Poisons,” Regulus reads and nods thoughtfully to himself. “Very joyful.”

“And enlightening,” Snape says, still not looking at Regulus. 

“He’s finally decided to plot Potter’s murder,” Avery says. 

“What is this about Potter’s murder?” Evan asks, distracted from his conversation. 

Snape rolls his eyes. “No. Though I wouldn’t mind.”

“Your brother has the most obnoxious friends, you know,” Evan says matter-of-factly. 

“I’ve heard.” Regulus gives him a dry smile. “Hartwitch is nothing,” Regulus says, addressing Snape and nodding at the book. “You’d be better off reading something by Oftstenhoft.”

Snape looks up and seems to only then really notice Regulus for the first time. He studies Regulus intently and Regulus probably would have blushed if he’d grown up with different parents. As it is, he merely stares back. “You take an interest in potions?” Snape asks finally. 

“I grew up around books on Dark Magic and such. Well, my parents are more the ancient curses types, but my Aunt Druella has an entire collection on magical poisons. I took a bit of a morbid curiosity one summer…” He turns to Evan and winks. “Don’t tell my brother.”

There’s a spark of interest in Snape’s eyes. “What would you recommend then?”

Regulus shrugs. “Depends on your goals, really.”

Snape has the sort of hyperfocus that makes Regulus both uncomfortable and fascinated. “If I write out a list…?”

“There’s a _list_ of murders you’re planning?” Avery asks with mock surprise in his tone. 

Both Regulus and Snape ignore him. “Go right ahead,” Regulus offers. “I’ll take a look.”

Three boys are sorted into Slytherin that year – Regulus, Anatole Bonfante and a boy named Barty Crouch. “Crouch _Junior_ ,” Evan whispers conspiratorially to Regulus as they watch Barty saunter over to the Slytherin table. “His father is a Ministry bigwig.”

“Yes, Evan, I know who the Head of Magical Law Enforcement is,” Regulus says airily, but he’s distracted by watching Barty. The Crouches are Pureblood and not strictly speaking blood traitors, but Crouch Sr. would probably carry that moniker with pride, if Regulus’ parents are to be believed. His son is slight and sandy-haired, his eyes watchful and the disdainful curl of his mouth strangely attractive. He’s all sharp around the edges, much like Snape, but in a different way, too. Regulus nudges Evan to scoot over so they can make room for Barty. Regulus notices that all the Slytherins are sneaking glances at the new addition to their house, automatically suspicious. _Because of who his father is,_ Regulus figures. 

“Alright?” Barty asks, sitting down beside Regulus. 

Regulus gives him a small smile. “I’m Regulus,” Regulus says. 

Barty rolls his eyes. “So I’ve heard.” 

“That’s Evan Rosier, Anatole Bonfante, Severus Snape, Jack Avery.” Regulus introduces each one of the other boys in their group. 

“Are you going to introduce the whole table, Reg?” Evan asks. 

“Just trying to be nice,” Regulus says. “You lot look like a bunch of deer caught by hunting hounds.”

There are squawks of protest from everyone except for Snape, who seems to be more interested in watching something across the room. 

“It’s because of my father,” Barty says in a low tone as conversations start back up around them. 

“Well you’re not your father. I figure you’re alright,” Regulus says. He doesn’t know how he’s come to that conclusion, but somehow he _knows._

Sirius doesn’t talk to him. Regulus had seen the flicker of disappointment on his face when the Sorting Hat announced Regulus’ House. Regulus doesn’t know why – it was always expected of him. And he’s not Sirius; he doesn’t get a kick out of breaking the rules and letting everyone down. There’s a part of Regulus that wishes they could simply be like other brothers sometimes, regardless of their House scarves and their parents’ expectations. He wonders if they ever had been. But it’s hard to find out if that could be possible when Sirius pretends he isn’t there. 

Barty talks to him – about quidditch and magical theory. Snape talks to him – about potions and blood wards and all things morbid and fascinating. Anatole talks to him – about travel and art and quidditch, too. Evan talks to him about everything and Avery doesn’t seem to care who he’s talking to, as long as they’re willing to share their gum. The older boys talk to him – Ashley Mulciber helps him in charms and Angelus Wilkes shows him how to sneak out to go flying without the new caretaker, Filtch, noticing. Narcissa sits with him in the evenings sometimes and shares lemon cakes and news from home. 

Sirius doesn’t talk to him, but soon, Regulus stops caring.

*~*

Narcissa is married in the summer after Regulus’ second year in a dress of white veela silk and shimmering lace. She glows as she walks down the aisle on Cygnus’ arm, with a bouquet of white roses in her arms and a flock of magical white doves soaring into the air at her entrance. Regulus can see her smiling under the long, sheer vail that covers her face. He can also see how much she is blushing. Lucius waits for her at the altar; Rodolphus Lestrange is his best man. Narcissa’s two bridesmaids, Bellatrix and Aurora Rosier, follow behind her, carrying the ends of her vail. 

Aurora, Narcissa’s cousin on her mother’s side, looks genuinely happy. Bellatrix smiles as well, but Regulus has the feeling her happiness is far more for show. Regulus’ parents don’t see fit to talk to their young sons about such things, but Regulus has heard the gossip: Antonin Dolohov’s arrest and conviction, despite everyone understanding that the aurors were only protecting their own, -- “are they trying to say the poor boy killed his own sister too?” Regulus remembers overhearing his father groan over the _Prophet_ – Bellatrix’s engagement to save the family honor after Andromeda’s elopement. Regulus is old enough to understand – Narcissa is marrying the man she loves; Bella will marry the man she must. 

Regulus wonders which lot will be his – whether in a beautiful, if pompous, ceremony he will play the part of the besotted lover or of a son doing his duty. Perhaps he will be lucky, though. Sirius is the one most likely to get stuck with a bride of their parents’ choosing. If there is anything to being a second son, it is the little bit of freedom he is allowed in his personal life. Regulus wonders if Sirius resents him that, just as Regulus resents the attention and respect that is accorded Sirius, whether or not he deserves them or not. 

The officiating wizard begins to speak and Narcissa gazes into Lucius’ eyes. She is still the most beautiful girl pureblood society has to offer. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to marry someone so lovely, Regulus muses. He considers the girls around his age that would be eligible. _Perhaps Emma Vanity,_ Regulus thinks. S _he is pretty and plays quidditch. She’s not fit for Sirius – he’ll marry a Lestrange or Rosier or Greengrass or Parkinson. But she’s fit enough for me._

“What are you thinking about?” Sirius hisses in his ear. Sirius’ tie is askew and he looks miserable under the warm summer sun in formal robes and stifled by the inability to run amuck and ruin their mother’s afternoon. 

“Nothing. Why?” 

“You have a weird look on your face.”

Regulus shrugs and nods toward the altar. “I’m thinking they’re very lucky to be so in love.” 

Sirius makes a face. “You think Malfoy knows about love?”

Regulus is about to respond, annoyance bubbling up at Sirius’ constant negativity toward anything that has to do with anyone in their social circle, but Orion notices their conversation at that point and tells then quietly to “be quiet and respectful.” Regulus straightens his back and returns his attention to the bride and groom. 

He realizes, with a cold, sinking feeling, that he doesn’t really want to marry Emma. He doesn’t want to marry anyone—

A quiet disturbance somewhere behind him, makes Regulus look around. A latecomer is being offered a chair by a house elf. It takes Regulus a few moments to realize that it’s Barty. His hair is pomaded and sleeked back, his formal robes are a dark navy blue that is almost black, with gold cufflinks and a starched white shirt underneath. A bit of gold embroidery snakes around the bottom of his sleaves and outlines his narrow, girlish waist. He notices Regulus and smiles a little. Regulus smiles back, then turn to look at Evan who is sitting with the rest of the Rosiers. 

Evan raises an eyebrow as though to ask, w _hat’s he doing here?_

 __Regulus shrugs. He really has not idea, but he also very much doesn’t mind.

“How did you manage getting invited to a Malfoy wedding?” Regulus asks Barty when he and Evan are finally let off the hook of family obligations at the reception ball. 

“And to escape your parents,” Evan adds. “Doesn’t your father hate all of us?”

Barty rolls his eyes. “I told my parents I was going to see my school friends. Rather I told my mother, since my father is never around to bother. I told her I was invited.” He looks at Regulus and smirks. “I wasn’t invited but there was little old Malfoy could do once I was already here in the middle of the ceremony.”

“This is terribly rude, Barty,” Regulus laughs. “And then you wonder why people talk about you.”

“They will talk about me no matter what,” Barty says glumly. “They just as might talk about something of substance rather than things my father is responsible for. Anyway.” Barty takes a long drink of cider. “I see no one else of our lot is here.”

“Mulciber and Rabastan are around here somewhere. Oh, Wilkes, too.” Evan says, grabbing a glass of cider from a passing waiter. 

“Not the Tallises?” 

“Well the Malfoys couldn’t invite every pureblood and their spawn.” Evan laughs. 

“The Averys are here. Why isn’t Jack?”

“This isn’t exactly a children’s event,” Regulus says, though the words feel a little bitter in his mouth. His father has already begun trying to introduce Sirius to the family financial affairs – with little luck – and he will be expected to give a name of the girl he intends to court for marriage in a couple of years. Surely, fourteen is old enough to dance and socialize and drink a little. On second thought, Jack would probably be as impatient with the formalities as Sirius. “Evan and I are only here because we’re family.”

Evan looks around and suddenly there’s a serious look on his face. “I have to tell you lot something. Not here.”

They steal off from the ballroom and into the garden. Evan leads them through the throng or wedding guests taking refreshment and fresh air, around the fountains decorated with white marble peacocks and into the orchard. They find themselves a gazebo overgrown with vines and slip inside. “Severus, Jack and I started at the Academy _last week._ ”

“Already?” Regulus asks. He feels Barty tense beside him in fascination and excitement. Everyone has heard the rumors that the Dark Lord is training new recruits. It started as a sort of summer program run by Brutus Greengrass, ostensibly benign, but everyone knows who the students are and what is being taught. Not dark magic as such, of course, as the Ministry hysterics claim, but _battle_ magic. But once the Organization was declared illegal that past spring, the Academy had to go underground as well, given its known ties to the Dark Lord. “Is Mr. Greengrass still teaching?”

“In part, but they’re bringing Dolohov on, now that the Dark Lord has gotten him out of Azkaban and all.”

 _The Dark Lord, Lucius Malfoy’s army of solicitors, and a dozen-and-a-half of everyone’s political contacts,_ Regulus thinks. “He must be quite good if the Lord pulled so many strings to have him released.”

“I heard our cousin Bella was involved,” Evan says. “But I don’t know how. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. My brother says she and Dolohov were as good as engaged before his arrest.”

“Well, get to the interesting part,” Barty finally explodes. “Have they taught you anything interesting yet?”

“Yes, Barty, the whole set of Unforgivables, first class we had.”

Barty’s eyes go wide for a moment before he realizes he’s being had. “What an ass you are, Rosier,” Barty mumbles. 

“No, but you wouldn’t believe,” Evan continues. “Mulciber said it was far less organized last year when he and Rabastan started. They do formation and everything. You’d love the brooms, Reg. Severus is better than everyone as always.” Evan laughs. “A year or so of this and Potter won’t stand a chance. Sev will hex him to the Americas and back.”

“You know that’s not the problem,” Regulus says glumly. “It’s that they’re always waiting around to corner him when none of us are there to help.”

“Think you could talk to your brother about it?”

“Not bloody likely.”

They all go quiet for a moment. “Say, Ev,” Barty says finally with a note of wonder in his voice, “Have you seen the Dark Lord yet?”

Evan shakes his head. “No. I don’t know if we will. There were rumors he’d be here tonight, but probably decided to not intrude. He’s…quite imposing, though my brother says he used to be just an ordinary politician. Seems odd, you know.”

“Can’t believe it’s truly war now,” Regulus says, softly. 

“Must be. They’re training us like it is,” Evan says. 

“Good.” Barty’s eyes are hard and glistening in the half-darkness of the gazebo. “Haven’t we had enough to hiding from the Muggles? Haven’t we had enough of idiots like my father running around and ruining the magic, taking away its wonder? Making everyone forget. I’m a Pureblood and I don’t know a single blood ward spell.”

“They’re not _that_ hard,” Regulus says, a little awkwardly. “I could teach you, I’ve said—”

“That’s not the point, Reg!” Barty turns on him and Regulus can feel himself flush under the fire of that gaze. “The point is that Muggles are poison to us; that people who want us to forget who we truly are, are poison to us!”

Barty gets wound up easily. Everyone knows that. Regulus reaches out and catches his wrist, winds his fingers around it and holds tight. Barty’s skin is always a little too warm; Regulus’ a little too cold.

Barty stills, but his voice still rings with conviction when he says, “I’m glad it’s war.”

“People will die,” Evan says, a shadow of doubt passing over his face. “Maybe people we love.”

“And if we don’t fight, we’re all as good as dead already.” 

They’re a little too drunk on cider. Barty laughs when Regulus tries to lead him through a waltz step. Barty is no good at this and doesn’t really want to dance, but Regulus teases him: “How will you ever court ladies if you can’t dance, Crouch?” Barty neither knows, nor cares. Regulus feels much the same. 

The torchlight turns Barty’s straw blonde hair gold and red. His eyes sparkle and there’s color in his cheeks – from the dancing or the alcohol they shouldn’t have been drinking, Regulus doesn’t know. The deep blue of his robes makes his light-grey eyes look darker and his skin paler, almost marble. He laughs and Regulus laughs too without knowing why. 

It’s Anatole who has veela blood and Evan who is the most attractive in their group. 

But Regulus has finally found a thing more beautiful than Narcissa.


	2. What It Means

Regulus would never in good sense floo to Malfoy Manor without an invitation, but he must be ill because he does just that the day after Sirius’ Disownment Ceremony. He stands in the foyer, fidgety and numb at the same time, his high-collared charcoal-grey robes buttoned up to his chin. He gives the house elf that greets him a glassy stare and asks if Narcissa is home. His own voice sounds strangely hollow to him, and the gold ring with the Black family crest that he now wears as the Heir too heavy for his slender, girlish hands. 

Narcissa appears at the top of the stairs within seconds of the house elf vanishing. Her hair is loose and she wears a muted house dress. She takes one look at Regulus’ half-mourning, the look on his face, and tears fill her eyes. 

She runs down the large staircase and sweeps him up into a hug. Regulus buries his head into her shoulder and tries not to cry. 

“I’m sorry I’ve come unannounced,” Regulus says once they’ve sat down in Narcissa’s private sitting room and the house elf has served them tea and biscuits that Regulus has no appetite for. “I just don’t know who to talk to right now.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Narcissa says softly. “I remember what it’s like.” 

“I can’t talk to my parents, of course. Mama is in a wretched state as it is, and you know what my father is like.” What he doesn’t mention is that his father got drunk the nigh before the Ceremony. Regulus doesn’t think he’s ever seen him have more than a couple of glasses of wine at dinner or a cognac by the fire with a friend. “None of my friends have written. Severus and Barty probably don’t even know yet; Anatole too since he portkeys between Paris and London for training. I thought Evan would at least…but he probably doesn’t know what to say. I’m not sure I would,” Regulus admits, staring blankly into his teacup. “How am I supposed to go back to Hogwarts? To training? This is so…embarrassing. And Sirius will _be_ there at school.” He feels a foreign sort of rage well up in his chest. _How could he do this? How could be abandon us like this?_

“None of this is your fault,” Narcissa says. “Sirius made his own choices and he’s hardly a child. Very, very young and brash…but it was not your job to keep him from going astray. If anything, it was his responsibility as your older brother to protect _you._ ” There’s an old hurt seeping into Narcissa’s voice, and Regulus knows she’s thinking about Andromeda. 

Regulus wonders how much of it could have been his fault. He and Sirius barely talked anymore and when they did, they usually sneered or fought. What was a fairly ordinary, if sometimes tense, sibling relationship had soured in the last few years since Regulus started Hogwarts. At the end of last term, Regulus had accidently come across Sirius and Potter, flanked by Lupin and Pettigrew, having their usual go at Snape. He had shouted for them to leave Snape alone, but Sirius had told him to _bugger off_ and leave them be. 

Snape is too proud to ask for help, especially in front of his tormentors, but Regulus knows that even he can’t face off against four all on his own. He’d caught Severus’ eye and took out his wand. He motioned right and tilted his head left, waited for Severus to catch on. Snape had not expected a formation signal so out of context, so it took him a moment to understand, but when he did, his defensive snarl changed to a smirk. They both took a step to their right to be out of each other’s line of fire. 

There is a sequence they teach and drill at the Academy for situation when a pair is split up in battle and they can’t apparate or easily regroup. Regulus knows it by heart by now, not to mention Snape. Severus aimed for Potter and Regulus went for Lupin, because he knew Lupin would not be able to anticipate him as well as Sirius and Sirius would be momentarily incapacitated by the indecision of which friend he ought to defend. They attacked in unison, smooth and practiced wand strokes, silent casting – Mr. Dolohov would be proud. Potter managed a shied; Lupin was knocked off his feet. Regulus had watched Sirius’ eyes widen and the angry flush bloom on his cheeks even as he raised his wand. 

After, Sirius had found him and shoved him against a wall. There was a nasty burn patched up on his cheek and Regulus knew Potter looked worse. _“Where did you learn to fight like that you rat bastard?”_ Sirius had hissed. _“Is that where you go at the crack of dawn when you were always the one falling asleep at breakfast? What are they teaching you? Who do you think you’re getting involved with?”_ Regulus had shoved him away. _“Stay away from my friends, or it will be worse next time,”_ Regulus had said and walked away to the sound of Sirius shouting after him that he was a damned fool to call people like Snape his friends. 

“How did you manage when Andromeda…?” Regulus gestures helplessly. 

“As you probably remember, I didn’t take it much better,” Narcissa says. 

“It’s different for girls.”

“No, it’s all the same pain. I also had Bella and wasn’t expected to take on the responsibilities of Heir. Give yourself a break, Regulus. They don’t let us wear mourning, even though that’s exactly what we’re doing.” 

Mourning is for funerals. For real death and honorable tragedies. There is nothing in having a blood traitor in the family but dishonor. 

“I hated the half-mourning,” Narcissa continues. “It was this constant reminder of what my family had become, what I had lost, even as I was expected to continue doing most other things. Bella hated it too, but for other reasons. She resented needing to give Andromeda any thought when she had betrayed us. But Bella is like that. She turns pain into anger and lashes out with it. It’s her strength, in a way. That doesn’t mean everyone should be like that, or can be like that.” Narcissa reaches out and strokes his shoulder. Regulus feels extremely young, too young to have his parents rely on him so much. 

“If I fail…what will become of us? Mama is half-mad with grief already.”

“You won’t fail.”

“Do you ever still miss Meddy?”

Narcissa sucks in a breath and seems to give this question some thought. “Sometimes. It’s hard to not miss someone you grew up with. But you have parents who value you, friends who love you… I’m happy, Regulus. And you will be happy too.”

Regulus reaches out and takes her hand, holds on to it for a little too long. It must mean something if Narcissa feels more like family than Sirius ever had. 

When Regulus gets home, Evan’s owl is waiting for him on the windowsill of his bedroom.

*~*

“What the hell did they do to you? Come on, Sev, fucking talk to me.” Evan kneels in front of Severus who sits on his bed staring blankly at the wall in front of him. Avery, Regulus, Barty and Anatole have crowded into the sixth-year boys’ dormitory and stand around quietly as Evan attempts to coax answers out of Snape. Usually, Severus’ run-ins with Potter and Sirius leave him fuming or gleeful, if he manages to get a good shot in, but tonight he’s blank and silent. This worries everyone, but only Evan is brave enough to really pry. 

“They tried to kill me,” Snape says, then adds after a moment’s pause that feels too long, “So nothing new.”

“Enough of this,” Regulus bursts out. “We need to tell someone. If Slughorn won’t listen, we need to go to Dumbledore. They can’t keep getting away with this!”

“Well, it’s your own brother, mate,” Avery says, not quite accusingly, but sharp enough to make everything in Regulus curl up in silent shame. 

He turns on Avery. “I don’t have a brother,” Regulus says coldly, his hands itching to hold a wand. 

“It’s not his fault Sirius is a bloody git,” Barty pipes up. “So maybe you can piss off, Jack.”

“Stop it, this isn’t helping,” Evan snaps at them. “But Regulus is right, Sev. This is out of control.” 

“It’s no use to tell Dumbledore,” Snape says flatly, still staring at the wall. Evan reaches up and touches the tip of his wand to a bruise on Snape’s jaw. His wand glows and slowly the bruise fades, though doesn’t completely go away. 

“You don’t know that,” Anatole says. 

“I do,” Severus bites out. “Now if you lot are done fretting—”

“You’ve already spoken to him, haven’t you?” Regulus says, a realization coming over him. Snape never liked going to the teachers, or even his friends for that matter, for help – his pride wouldn’t let him. But there’s something final about the look on his face. 

Slowly, Snape turns to look at him, meets his eyes. Regulus holds his breath at the intensity of Severus’ stare, wondering if he will attempt wandless legilimency. “Yes, I have,” Snape admits, and immediately looks away. 

A collective murmur of disapproval spreads through the room. “And Dumbledore won’t do anything?” Barty asks what everyone else is thinking. 

“Enough, this is pointless!” Snape finally snaps, grabbing at his wand. “No, they won’t be expelled. They’ll get _detention_ as always. We already know they’re gits and all the teachers are in their pocket because they’re Gryffindors. So why are we talking about this? I can take care of myself.”

“Because we’re your friends, Sev,” Regulus says. “They only ever do this bullshit when none of us are around. That’s how my—how Sirius is. And you not ever letting us help is not making things better.”

“We should find a way to get back at them,” Avery says. 

“Yes!” Barty is almost giddy with excitement at the idea and Regulus shoots him a concerned look. 

Barty merely shrugs at him. Regulus knows Barty wants to have a good chance at a fight more than anything. 

“And this time,” Avery continues, “We’ll get Evans too.”

Snape looks up sharply. “Leave Lily the hell alone. She has nothing to do with this.”

“She betrayed you, Sev,” Anatole reasons. 

“I said _leave her alone_.” Snape stands and everyone instinctively take a step back. “I called her a—a mudblood. That was my fault.”

“Well, she is,” Barty mutters. 

Snape whips around to glare at him.

“Alright, alright,” Regulus says, placatingly, putting a hand on Barty’s shoulder to stop him from saying anything further. “We’ll leave Evans alone.”

Snape looks around the room. Regulus wonders what he sees – if he sees his friends, the people he trains with and the people he will fight with. Or if he sees something else. No one really knows what to make of Snape or what he really wants. Regulus tries to understand, but usually fails. It is like all their overtures of friendship go over Snape’s head sometimes, like he never quite believes them. “Look at us,” Snape says, his calm having returned. “Standing around, planning schoolboy pranks. What are we going to do? Make them sick with slugs? Make their ears turn purple? Hex them half to death and end up expelled? You think Dumbledore won’t figure out who’s involved? Some of us better keep our heads down around here.” He throws a look at Avery and Evan and they look down, conceding the point. 

Regulus’ stomach does a flip. He’s forgotten that they’re Marked now, and his and Barty’s turn will likely be that summer. 

“We have other things to focus on. Let Potter and Black play around like the immature gits they are. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction on wasting any more time on them. We will be ready for this war, and they won’t. That’s all the satisfaction I need.” Snape sweeps out of the room and Evan mutters for them to let him go. 

Regulus figures Severus is probably right. He’d still have loved a chance to hex Sirius with a good stinging spell to the face. There’s a part of Regulus that shamefully knows why: if it’s a childish prank under the noses of teachers and the Headmaster, it’s unlikely anyone will get seriously hurt. Not like when it’s _out there._ Not like if it’s battle.

*~*

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please, your attention!” Rabastan waves his arms around and glares at them from his place atop a chair. 

The antechamber to the large ballroom where they will be presented to the Dark Lord that night is small and minimalistic, but Anatole and Evan have used their talents in artistic charms to dress it up a little with sparkling lights and snowflakes that disappear before ever hitting the floor or touching anyone’s robes or hair. Mr. Dolohov has allowed them a bottle of champaign to split among the group before the ceremony and Regulus has somehow ended up as master of ceremonies – effectively, the one pouring out drinks and keeping an eye out that no one take sole possession of the bottle. Wilkes and Mulciber put some silencing charms on the walls and doors so that they could celebrate without worrying about being overheard in the adjacent chambers. 

Regulus takes a look around. There are eleven of them in this battle squad – the Young Guard they’re referred to. The best trained the Academy has to offer; all of them Pureblood, except for Severus. It’s strange to think of themselves this way, even now. Regulus thinks of these young men as his friends, as his classmates. He’s known them for years – all his time at Hogwarts, some even longer. They say there won’t be another Young Guard. There just aren’t enough Pureblood boys close enough in age and willing to fight. Besides, the Academy is taking up too many resources they don’t have lately. The war has dragged on for several years now and they are not much closer to winning than they were when it began. There’s still hope, but they need to be _pragmatic_ about it, as Lucius Malfoy says. Lucius is Head of Finance now, so there must be something to what he says. 

“Gentlemen, your atten— Oh, shut it already, I’m trying to make a toast!”

Laughter and jeering greet Rabastan’s frustrated outburst, but the group settles down. Rabastan is their ranking member, default squad Captain. They listen to him on instinct. 

“In a few moments we will walk through those double doors and be presented to the Dark Lord himself. We have trained and some of us have already fought. We are all Marked and we have dedicated ourselves to this Cause and this wizard of remarkable power and ingenuity. The New Year is upon us, gentlemen, and so is a new future. I believe that in 1978 we will make the world _tremble_ at the mere thought of us!” 

Cheers fill the room, echoing off the stone walls. Regulus feels giddy for the first time. He’s imagined this presentation ceremony for months now: the cream of Pureblood society gathered to watch them walk in formation as a single battle squad to where the Dark Lord will preside, tall and dark and powerful, surrounded by his High Officers. All their families will be there; all the families that _matter._ Their usual mission cloaks are plain black with no distinguishing marks and plain clasps. But tonight each one of them wears an oversized cloak clasp with their respective family crest and formal robes underneath for the ball that will follow the presentation ceremony. Regulus imagines the looks of pride on his parents’ faces and a warm feeling of accomplishment spreads over his chest. 

Regulus glances over at Barty who grins back at him. 

“To our future, gentlemen!” Rabastan shouts from his perch on the chair. 

“Hoorah!” they echo and a deafening clicking of glasses follows. 

“I’m so glad you could be here,” Regulus says quietly to Barty. “I know it’s always hard for you to get away. With your father and all…”

Barty reaches out as though to touch his shoulder or take his hand, but stops himself. The smile he gives Regulus is uncharacteristically sweet. “I’d probably die if I was forced to be anywhere else. Especially tonight.”

Regulus wouldn’t be so hyperbolic, but he knows it wouldn’t be the same without Barty. 

It wouldn’t be same without any of his friends – he really doesn’t know how he’d get through this war without them. But it _especially_ wouldn’t be the same without Barty.

*~*

  
“Barty! Barty!” Regulus’ can hear his voice growing hoarse, his throat stinging with the thick smoke he breathes in with every gulp of air. It’s impossible to keep a filtering charm up without letting down his guard too much, and each one he takes the time to cast degrades almost too quickly to make a difference. The auror outpost they raided burns around them, the air electrified with the remnants of curses, the air thick with smoke, making it hard to see. Sounds of fighting drift from one side then the other, making Regulus stop and flatten himself against the wall for several seconds until he can ascertain that the way is clear. 

Their intelligence about the size of the garrison had been off. They had not been prepared for quite this amount of resistance. The apparition field they had not bothered to break for fear of setting off the alarms is now causing problems with the retreat. He knows most of the pairs have left but something tells him Barty is still here. Regulus doesn’t know how they will get out, even if he does manage to find him. The Young Guard has one portkey per battle pair, but Snape took theirs, apparating out a wounded Avery who had been separated from his partner. Regulus had stayed behind to look for Barty.

It’s not quite protocol, but he can’t help it. 

Regulus turns a corner and immediately flattens himself against the wall to evade a pair of ricocheting curses. He takes a moment to build a double-layer _protego_ shield before sprinting down the hall. The outpost structure is starting to collapse and crumble around him, pieces of the ceiling crashing down around Regulus as he runs. 

It’s almost too dark to see; the walls are covered with spots of flickering orange where light from one of the fires can be seen through holes in the wall. Another burst of curses comes barreling at him. They ricochet off Regulus’ shield and he throws up another one to replace the one destroyed. 

He can make out several figures fighting at the end of the hall now. Three aurors, two of his own, holding a back-to-back position. By their stature and movements, Regulus guesses one is Evan. The second could be Barty, but he doesn’t quite dare shout his name now, the sound choked out in his stinging throat. 

Regulus uses the dark to his advantage, presses up against the wall and cloaks himself in a disillusionment charm. He creeps forward until he is in range of the group before releasing what Dolohov calls a stealth combination – first two curses aimed at the feet of the aurors closest to him, sent to guild flat across the floor for least visibility, then another curse sent in an arch to hit a plank over their heads and send it crashing down while they are distracted and looking down or over their shoulders, and only then does he detach himself from the wall and send a flourish of curses straight at his targets. 

The gliders knock one of the aurors off his feet, but his partner reacts fast enough with a counter shot to mess up Regulus’ aim on the high-aiming curse. The hanging bit of ceiling he had aimed for takes a moment to sway and creek before collapsing. The auror on the ground rolls away from it. Evan manages to hit him with a hard stunner before he can recover. 

The second Death Eater, whom Regulus has decided is definitely Barty by his dueling style, is preoccupied with the third auror. Dueling two-to-one, Regulus and Evan manage to dispatch their second auror opponent within a few combinations, and then join Barty. 

“I’ve got him,” Barty hisses, his voice strained with concentration and exhaustion. 

“Don’t be stupid, we need to get out,” Regulus growls. “This isn’t the time for hit counts.” He motions for Evan to begin maneuvering so they can surround the auror. In the end, it’s Barty who gets through his defenses anyway. Regulus sees the auror’s shielding crack and break right before the red flare from Barty’s wand crackles through the air and hits him in the shoulder. The auror goes down, letting out a yelp of pain. Regulus disarms him with a flick of his wand; binds him with a second flick. 

They crowd around the fallen auror. He’s young, Regulus notices. Probably only a few years older than they are. He stares up at them with hatred, a stream of blood flowing from his temple. His cloak is charred and smoking where Barty’s spell had hit. 

Barty raises his wand. “ _Avada Ke—”_

“No!” Regulus grabs his arm.

“The fuck are you doing? Get off!” Barty snatches his arm back. 

Regulus feels himself flush. But it seems useless to bother killing him. _He wouldn’t hesitate if things were reversed,_ a quiet voice whispers in his head, and Regulus cringes. It’s probably true. But the look in Barty’s eyes whenever he casts an unforgivable frightens Regulus. 

“We need to get _out_ of here,” Regulus insists. “Do either of you have a portkey?”

Barty shakes his head. 

“I do,” Evan says. 

“Good, let’s go.”

“We should at least take the aurors,” Evan says, looking around. The two they had fought earlier are out cold. Evan casts precautionary binding spells on then, but Regulus isn’t even certain if they’re still alive. “At least one of them.”

He’s not wrong. “Fine.” Regulus adds a petrifying spell on the still-conscious auror in front of them just in case.

Evan fishes out the portkey locket. Barty take hold of his arm and Regulus’s wrist. Regulus yanks up the auror by the arm and holds on tight. 

Evan flips open the locket. 

It takes a moment for Regulus to realize that what is supposed to happen isn’t happening. 

“Bloody hell, what—” Evan starts.

Regulus drops the bound auror he’s clutching, his stomach doing a nasty flip. The lockets aren’t timed. Unless it took a direct magical hit, there’s no reason for it to not work. Unless there’s an anti-portkey ward on Headquarters. Or—

The air is thick – it’s not just the smoke. It’s not something he feels with his skin; but something his magic responds to. He raises his wand and watches the tip flicker. 

“We’re trapped,” he whispers. “They put up a portkey barrier.”

He can feel Evan and Barty staring at him. 

“Then we fight our way out,” Barty says. Instinctively, they back up against the wall, sinking into the shadows. 

“But where are they?” Evan asks, even as he and Barty begin building a disillusionment bubble around them. 

That’s a good question. The ends of the hallway are in darkness but otherwise there’s nothing obscuring their vision. There is a fire consuming the building from the north side; Regulus can see its flairs through the holes in the wall and feel its heat getting stronger and stronger. The ceiling is starting to crumble and Regulus takes a moment to cast a reinforcement charm on it, so the damn thing doesn’t come down on their heads. He tries to recall the blueprints of the outpost, the scouting report. He figures they must be toward the eastern side. There are woods all around the outpost, denser on the north side, more sparse on the south, leading up to a village. The walls of the hallway are not interrupted by doors on the south, so most likely beyond the wall is the large conference room. There isn’t as much heat coming in from that side. There’s a fire escape on the east and the main entrance on the southwest. Most of the windows are – were – on the second floor. 

“They’re outside,” Regulus says quietly. “They’re waiting for us; smoking us out like rabbits from a burrow. And we have no good way to ascertain their positions.” 

“Well, that’s lovely,” Barty says tartly. He begins to hum, prodding the air with his wand, then curses after a few seconds. “I won’t be able to break these barriers alone. Not even if all three of use tried. Not fast enough. There’s too many layers.”

“We will need to blast through the walls. They’ll be watching the exits,” Regulus says. “Then make a run for the woods.”

“What if they’re on the other side?” Barty nods at the wall. 

“Do you have a better idea?” Evan asks.

Barty shakes his head and grips his wand tight. “I’ll break, you shield.”

They blast through the wall. The structure around them creeks and shakes, even as they are met with a rush of curses and hexes. As always in battle, the world seems to go quiet. Regulus’ skin prickles with the intensity of it. He’s not quite sure how many aurors are there to greet them in the conference room – less than ten, more than five. They fight through the storm, in the strange half-silence, the air crackling with magic and snapping wood. The building is slowly coming apart, and by the time they’ve dispatched their adversaries, they’re standing in a hail of ash, woodchips and plaster. 

The lights have gone out and there’s only fire at their back. 

Regulus looks over at Barty and Evan. He wishes he could see their faces. Barty’s hair would glow in the firelight and Evan’s grey-blue eyes would be full of faith – something that Regulus has less and less of these days. He wants to see their faces if they’re going to die here, surrounded by aurors. If someone called for backup from London and that backup actually came, they could be facing dozens of them. They’re well trained, but they’re not invincible. 

_It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen,_ Regulus wants to say, but the words dry up in his throat. Barty will only tell him to not be a coward. _Magic is hope,_ Evan had once said, and Regulus wonders if he would say it again now. 

“We need to make sure to really take the wall down in a clean sweep – we can’t be stumbling over remnants,” Regulus says, pulling himself together. “Barty and I will blast together.”

“I can’t shield all three of us by myself,” Evan says. “Not effectively.”

“Don’t shield. Blind them. It will be more effective.”

“An _aurora,_ then,” Evan says. “It’s the only thing that’s long enough to give us enough edge.”

Regulus’ mouth curls up into a half-smile. He’d figured that, and figured Evan would be the best at it. 

“If we can’t get through,” Barty says, “let’s take as many of the bastards down with us as we can.”

Very deliberately, Evan raises his wand. Its tip begins to glow, the light slowly starting to pulse and expand, growing stronger and brighter every second. When Evan completes the figure, the light will expand outward in a blinding wave of light, linger several seconds, shimmering in the night air, then die out slowly. 

_Magic is hope,_ Regulus tells himself firmly as he raises his own wand. Now is not the time to give up, not when his friends need him to fight like hell. 

Sometimes, too much concentrated battle magic begins to smell like sulfur. There’s a point after that when curse trajectories can become unpredictable, the remnants of old magic making them swerve and ricochet. There’s also a point of pressure when it becomes impossible to fight as a unit, impossible to do anything but react, the brain overstimulated with casting at a rate of two spells per second.

After the breaking point, everyone defaults to what they’re most comfortable with, the primal instincts of their body. For Evan, its blinders, stunners, the sort of jinxes they used for pranks at school. Barty’s magic takes a turn into a pit too dark for Regulus to want to contemplate it after. And Regulus itches for a broom.

Almost anything can be made to fly though. Some objects are more conducive for that sort of magic – brooms, carpets, mortars – but anything would do really. 

The woods are full of trees, and the trees bristle with branches. _Accio_ is easy enough to cast, but it takes a beat. 

Regulus hears his name as though through water, turns as time seems to slow. Evan barrels into him, knocking him to one knee. There’s a burst of light that hits Evan chest, knocks him over. Regulus jumps to his feet – everything he casts now is aimed at shielding as he takes a protective stance over Evan. 

The good thing with shields is they have an exponential power – if they’re built fast enough, after a while they can offer a few seconds of respite. It’s really all Regulus needs to cast the aerodynamic charms on the summoned branches that come swooping down at him. They won’t be real brooms, but it will have to do. 

Evan has managed to pick himself up to kneel on the ground, casting sporadically and without much force, but he’s one more person to watch Regulus’ back, and with how outnumbered they are, Regulus will take what he can get. 

The makeshift broom won’t take off on the first kick and it costs Regulus narrowly avoiding a hex. The spell burns through his cloak and the sleeve of his robes and shirt. It hurts, but he manages to hold on to both his wand and the branch. He kicks it harder, urging it upward and this time it rises clumsily – up, up, toward the open sky. Regulus gives it a jerk around, feels how unsteady it Is under him. He won’t be able to maneuver easily. 

But even on a jerky, lumbering branch of a broom, Regulus is in a much better position than he was on the ground. He creates a circle of fiendfyre around Barty and Evan, scorching and burning some of the aurors as he goes. He sweeps down into the circle of the flames, shouts, “Barty, can you fly it?" nodding at one of the summoned branches on the ground. Barty picks it up and begins fidgeting with it as Regulus forces his own branch to hover parallel to the ground. “Ev, can you get on?”

Evan’s badly hurt. Regulus can tell from how pale he is, the ugly bruises under his eyes, the small trickle of blood seeping from a corner of his mouth. _Could he even apparate like this?_ But Evan pushes himself up, swings a leg over the branch and clutches Regulus around the waist. The fiendfyre is beginning to clear and severs hexes scorch the ground by their feet. 

Barty is trying to kick his branch up into the air, casts another levitating spell on it, which only makes him float a little higher. “Go, go without me,” he seethes. 

“Hell no,” Evan mumbles, throwing several shielding charms in different directions. “If we’re dying, we’re doing it together.”

Barty lets out a growl, gives the branch one more sharp kick—It shoots up at an almost perpendicular angle, almost throwing Barty off, just as the fiendfyre dies out. 

Regulus kicks his own branch into flight. They rise and rise, up and forward, toward the woods. Curses and shouting follow them, but none hit their target. 

As soon as Regulus feels the air lighten, he disapparates. 

They land in a heap on the floor at Headquarters, tumbling off their makeshift brooms. Evan slumps heavily against Regulus and Regulus tries to adjust his position into something even remotely dignified without moving him too much. 

Barty crawls over to them, out of breath, his eyes wide. “I can’t believe we actually go out,” he says, with an undertone of awe. “Alright?” Barty looks between them. 

Regulus shakes his head a little. “I’m fine, but Evan isn’t.”

Before they can think what to best do, voices from down the hall catch their attention. Severus, Rabastan and Ashely Mulciber round the corner, deep into an argument. “We have to back for them,” Ashely is saying. 

“We have orders, Ash. We have them for a reason,” Rabastan says, although he doesn’t sound happy about it. 

“I hate that Lestrange is right, but he’s right,” Severus says. “We don’t even know they’re there. If they’re still alive they’re probably not. We could be walking into a trap—” Severus stops dead in his tracks, catching sight of them. 

Shouting and cheering immediately fills the hall and before Regulus can even notice that Snape has moved, he is kneeling beside Evan. Rabastan helps Barty to his feet, brushing off his cloak and slapping his shoulder. “Well, hell, aren’t we glad to see you lot!” 

Regulus catches Ashley’s gaze. “How’s Jack?”

“Avery? He’ll be fine by morning. Isn’t that right, Severus?”

“What?”

“Avery?”

“He bled like a gutted pig and whined like a toddler, but he’s just got to sleep it off now, yea.” He turns his attention back to Evan. “Do you know what they hit you with?”

“Not a clue,” Evan manages, though Regulus can tell it hurts him to speak. 

Snape runs his wand over Evan, casting several diagnostic charms, then reaches into the case full of potions he’d been carrying and makes Evan drink a vial full of pale green liquid. Evan gags and coughs but swallows it down. 

“Shouldn’t we just take him to the medward?” Ashley asks. 

“I don’t want to move him, until I’m sure.” Snape begins to work in his normal, meticulous manner. His hands are steady, nimble. He’s good at what he does – there’s a reason both Karkaroff, who’s head of Lab, and Ashley’s brother, who’s Head Medic, have petitioned to have Snape reassigned. But Snape has resisted reassignment, saying he wanted to stay out in the field. Regulus could never quite figure out why – Severus was always fascinated by the research aspects the Lab is conducting, and he would have fit in well there. 

Evan is talking – breathless and a little too fast, Regulus thinks he might be delirious. “Sev—mm, Sev, if I die, I’m going to haunt the fuck out of James Potter for you. He and his moronic band of cretins—Well, I don’t know if I’ll become a ghost—is that possible to know ahead of time?—”

“Evan. Shut your mouth,” Severus says gruffly, but Regulus catches the hitch in his voice. “You’re not going to die.” After a moment, he looks up at them and says, “Mulciber, Lestrange, take him to the medward. Levitation – but gently. I’m right behind you.” 

They all watch Ashley and Rabastan leave, Evan levitated between them. Regulus gnaws on his lip. “What’s wrong with him?”

“At this point, I can’t say for sure. Could be simply a powerful _impulsum,_ could be something more direct or complicated. Could be even a botched _internum influent._ ”

“So he’s hemorrhaging,” Barty says quietly. 

“I think he’ll be alright now that he’s here. But he’ll be out for a few days. Are either of you hurt?”

Barty shakes his head. “Bruises and scrapes for me mostly.”

Regulus suddenly realizes that his shoulder is burning and he’s shaking a little more than usual. “I might have a burn or two, but nothing serious. Do you have a magic purger on you by any chance?”

Severus rummages around in his case and hands Regulus a small vial. Regulus accepts it gratefully with a nod. 

A hound patronus leaps into the hall and runs a circle around them before saying, curtly, in Theodore Mulciber’s voice, “Mr. Snape, I need you back at the medward. _Now_.” 

Snape scrambles to finish packing his potions back up as Barty asks, “Did we take serious losses?”

“Nothing fatal but we’ll be here a while, especially with Evan. I’ll tell Rabastan to report to Mr. Dolohov that you’ve made it back. Go home, you both look like shit.” Then he turns, and practically runs down the hall toward the medward. 

Regulus flinches when Barty puts a hand on his shoulder. He’s starting to come down from the adrenaline and all the emotions he had been suppressing are suddenly hitting him all at once. They had almost died; they had almost been captured. He tries to think back through the battle but his mind keeps drawing blanks. He uncorks the vial with the purging potion and gulps it down, trying to will his hands not to shake. 

“I’ll take you home,” Barty says softly. 

“I’m fine.”

“Alright, but I’m still taking you home.”

Regulus looks over at him sharply, opens his mouth for a retort, but the words die in his throat. Barty’s eyes are warm, flecked with concern. He lets out a long exhale and nods. “Alright.”

The dittany patch is cold against Regulus’ shoulder. Barty had insisted that they patch up the burn there before he leaves. Some of Regulus’ shaking has subsided and he doesn’t know if it’s from the purging potion, the adrenaline come-down receding, or simply the effect of sitting on his own bed in his own room, Barty fussing with the medical pack Kreacher brough up for them. 

“Poor Kreacher – he’s still not used to me coming home battered,” Regulus says, for want of something to fill the silence. He doesn’t mind being quiet with Barty, but lately there’s a new tension there, and Regulus can recognize it, but doesn’t want to name it. Naming it would make too many things too complicated. 

“Do your parents know what you do?”

Regulus makes a face. “The basics. I don’t share the gory details.”

Barty smiles faintly. “Probably best.” He removes the patch and Regulus looks down at his shoulder, not surprised to see that the skin there in no longer pink and raw, but mildly scabbed over. 

The fireplace crackles and throws spots of firelight across the wooden floor. It’s not quite as comforting as it should be – reminds Regulus too much of the fire engulfing the auror outpost. “Maybe I should have stayed with Evan.”

“Snape is with him.”

Barty says it as though that’s supposed to mean something special, and Regulus feels like he missed something. He looks up to meet Barty’s eyes, expects it to only last a moment, but Barty never looks away. 

Regulus’ stomach does a flip, and he sucks in a slow breath. Barty’s eyes are bright and his hair glows amber in the firelight. The sharp edges of his face make dancing shadows that obscure his expression. Regulus can’t tell what he’s thinking. The war has gone on for years. They’re always one misstep away from losing someone they love. “Barty? Aren’t you ever scared?”

Barty holds his gaze and a small, sad smile curves the corners of his mouth. “A little. Sometimes.” He reaches out and takes Regulus’ hand. “Are you?”

Regulus swallows and leans forward, rests his forehead against Barty’s and closes his eyes. “More than I’d like to be.” He’s ashamed of the feeling, but he can’t help it. He’s not even certain if he’s talking about the war anymore or his own racing heart.

There’s a song worming its way into Regulus’ conscience, a melody he can’t quite place, something from last Samhain, wispy and wild and dangerous. Barty is dangerous and dangerously close. 

And when Barty kisses him, Regulus doesn’t fight it.

*~*

There’s a strange poetry to it all – the way he and Barty fit together. They’re a contrast in almost every way: Barty is bookish while Regulus loves broom racing and quidditch; Barty is brazen and brash and sharp around the edges, uncomfortable with formality while Regulus is soft-spoken, mild and patient, and can use formalities and courtesies as both sword and shield. Barty is the fire against Regulus’ snow, the passion to Regulus’ constancy, the desire to Regulus’ yearning. They should have crashed and burned, but instead it’s a relief. 

Somewhere in between the fear and the blood and the days that seem to become longer and the months that melt away, there’s always Barty. 

Barty, laughing as they dance around the fires at the Samhain festival. 

Barty’s hand in his, as Regulus teaches him how to dance a La Volta, gliding along the sun-specked wooden floors of the Blacks’ summer house in Buckinghamshire. 

The snow in Barty’s hair when they have snowball fights and play Defend the Castle in midwinter. 

The way Barty kisses him before battle and nuzzles against his neck when they get back home. The taste of champaign on his lips after a ball and the taste of salt when they kiss away each other’s tears in the aftermath of Anatole Bonfante’s funeral. 

Sometimes, Regulus thinks they’re too young for all this. 

Barty doesn’t know how to say _I love you,_ and Regulus was never allowed to. And yet they say it again and again until their hearts are sore with it.

They’re fighting a war and it can’t last, but Regulus still prays to Merlin that, somehow, despite everything, it will.


	3. The Way It Ends

Regulus doesn’t know when the war finally got to him. Perhaps he was always meant to fail, or perhaps he simply wasn’t meant for _this_ exact thing at _this_ exact time. Perhaps if the war had been shorter, or if he had been older…

Sometimes he goes into the room with the ancestral tapestries and walks the perimeter of the chamber, examining his long-dead ancestors. He knows their names by heart – it’s one of those things that gets drilled into any Pureblood child from a young age. He knew this family tree by heart before he knew his first spell. Everything in life is linked in one way or another with his family, with his duty to that family, to those who came before him and those who would come after. 

He is the last trueborn, true-lived male heir. Perhaps the pressure of it had been too much. 

Seconds sons are raised differently. They learn to behave and feel and think differently than their elder brother. All his instincts are wrong, and no matter how much he tries to set them right it’s like trying to break years of muscle memory. 

He walks up to the wall where his own woven portrait stares out at him with dead, fixed eyes. He reaches out and gingerly runs a hand over the black, scorched spot where Sirius had been. The family tree is littered with these blemishes, rotting branches cut off before they could poison the trunk. Regulus doesn’t want to become just another black spot. Sometimes he wonders what it’s like to be cut out of the woven network of family magic like that. He wonders if the disowned feel it. He supposes he wouldn’t feel the blood wards of the house anymore, curling around him as soon as he steps into the front hall, as though giving him a light, ghosting embrace. He supposes that he would no longer feel the prickle of magic around ancient family artifacts or the strange otherworldly lightheadedness during Samhain rituals. But he wonders if he would feel anything in his day-to-day life. 

Does Sirius ever regret it? Does Andromeda? He figures, they probably don’t. 

Regulus does not fancy himself a coward, but he had also never meant to be a hero.

*~*

In spring of 1979 Narcissa gets a private consult to determine why she has not been able to bear a child yet. No one is supposed to know except her mother and sister. She hadn’t told Lucius as to not worry him. But news like this rarely stays where it should and Walburga soon knows all about it and Regulus happens to overhear. 

Narcissa tries to keep a straight face about it when he asks her, but she still cries when she tells him what the mediwitch had said – that her figure is not ideal for childbirth, that her metabolism makes it hard to conceive, that the stress of the war makes it difficult to carry to term. 

“Will it ever be over?” she asks, her eyes full of tears. “Is it really worth it?”

“What does Lucius think?”

She shakes her head and Regulus doesn’t press the subject. They always hear about how many families will be destroyed if they lose. He’s starting to wonder if more will be destroyed if no one wins.

*~*

Mr. Dolohov had a rule at the start of the war when it came to raids: _if they’re too young for Hogwarts, they’re too young for the Avada._

That rule seems to get eroded after Anatole dies. Everyone knows he was Dolohov’s protégé. The next few months, some of the bloodiest of the war, become known as the Dolohov raids. Regulus knows that for some of his friends this is a way to work out their own grief. Regulus sees it in Barty’s eyes, in Jack Avery’s. But it’s disconcerting to hear Evan laugh and to realize how much bitterness Is in it now, how much hatred. Evan had always been bright and amiable, popular in the way only attractive, charming people with few cares in the world can be. His jokes drip poison now, much like the poison Severus has become so good at brewing. 

So many poisons. Entire panels of poisons in every shade, of every effect. Some are for direct delivery, some for close range attacks, some for long-range. Some are hallucinogens, some convulsives, some acidic—The list goes on and on. Severus enjoys the process, although Regulus isn’t certain he enjoys the delivery quite as much. There’s a desperation behind the cold fire in his eyes and Regulus has a strange feeling that Snape could be the one to betray them all one day. 

Regulus goes flying and feels no freedom in it anymore.

*~*

Regulus has asked enough question, done enough eavesdropping at Headquarters, and committed enough small treacheries by the time the Dark Lord requests Kreacher’s services to have a vague idea of what may have been preoccupying the Dark Lord lately. Because it has not been the war. 

He waits, and the more hours go by the guiltier and more ashamed he feels. There’s a responsibility he feels for Kreacher, and a childhood attachment, bordering on affection. 

The result is a shock, but not a surprise.

For several seconds, Regulus stands rooted to the ground, watching Kreacher’s convulsions, the agonized twist of his face burning itself into Regulus’ memory. Pureblood custom holds that a borrowed house elf must always be respected and treated well – if punishment is necessary, the situation is to be recounted to the master at an appropriate moment, and he or she is left to exact the appropriate punishment. But the Dark Lord is not a Pureblood, and Regulus doubts that Kreacher had done any wrong. He knows this instinctively, with the part of himself that has begun to feel his respect and fascination for their Lord melt slowly into fear—and nothing more. 

And he knows in that moment, with as much conviction as he has ever felt, that the war will do to his friends, to everyone he loves, what Voldemort has done to his house elf. Regulus will either watch them die or be destroyed.

*~*

Barty kisses him, slow and languid, lazy as they spend their entire evening together. It’s nearly Christmas, and everyone at Headquarters is preoccupied more with their families than with mission planning. The gentle crackling of the fireplace makes Regulus think of the first time they kissed. The flames are low and scattered. Soon there will be nothing but red coals left.

The wind outside howls and if Regulus closes his eyes, he can imagine the drifts of snow growing taller and thicker as the snowstorm rages outside. He should be in London. His father is very ill and Regulus should be there like a dutiful son. But perhaps it’s best he doesn’t pretend to be what he not longer is, or no longer will be all too soon. 

Will he be anything after this mission? 

“What’s wrong?” Barty asks, pushing himself up on his elbows and looking into Regulus’ face. 

“Nothing,” Regulus lies. “I’ve just been thinking a lot.”

“About?”

Regulus shrugs.

Barty sighs and lies down with his head on Regulus’ shoulder. “If you keep overthinking everything, you’ll go crazy.”

Regulus gives a small laugh, and it comes out surprisingly bitter. What will Barty think of him, after it’s all done and over? Will he even figure it out? Could he ever understand?

 _No,_ Regulus thinks, _Not Barty. Not the most loyal and true._ “Barty?” His voice comes out choked and small, but Regulus must know this one thing at least. 

“Hm?”

“If you were told that I betrayed the Cause, that I went against our Lord…would you believe them?”

Barty sits up, alarmed. “What are you talking about?” He’s searching Regulus’ face and Regulus pulls up his occlumency shields just in case. 

Slowly, he sits up as well and meets Barty’s eyes. “I know our Lord is immortal, or nearly so,” he whispers.

Barty’s eyes go wide, but after a moment, he nods. “He _is_ very powerful.”

“Don’t you think…” There’s a part of Regulus that wants Barty to understand. There’s an even more insane part of him that wants to convince Barty to run away together.

Regulus will do neither. He has already decided that.

Instead, he says, “It’s not information I should know. I don’t think we’re meant to know.”

Barty looks down at his hands. “Then don’t tell me.” He reaches out blindly and grabs at Regulus’ hand. “What are you thinking of doing, Reg?”

Regulus swallows past the lump in his throat. “Nothing.”

Barty gives him a disbelieving look. “I doubt anything will happen simply because you snooped around Mr. Dolohov’s papers or overheard a conversation.” 

“I know, but…just in case? If anything does happen, and you hear things…”

Barty is shaking his head, a fierce desperation in his eyes that’s threatening to burst into anger. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Just to not believe rumors. Or at least trust that…” Regulus inhales, long and deep, leans forward to press his forehead against Barty’s. “That I love you.” 

Barty shudders, closes his eyes, but doesn’t push him away. “You’re scaring me, Regulus.”

“Can you trust me?” Just asking that feels like a betrayal. 

Barty nods, almost imperceptibly; whispers, “Yes.”

Regulus kisses him then, and that may be the greatest betrayal of all.


End file.
